


Simple Choices

by Pandir



Category: Better Call Saul (TV)
Genre: Implied Gang Violence, M/M, Murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:29:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28196943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandir/pseuds/Pandir
Summary: The more he tries to figure out how he ended up in this fancy room, on this expensive leather couch with a Salamanca pouring him a drink, the less he can put his finger on it. Ciro doesn’t remember making any kind of particular decision, really. At least not the kind you have to think long and hard about.A short story of how Ciro came to work for Lalo Salamanca.
Relationships: Ciro / Original Male Character, Ciro/Eduardo "Lalo" Salamanca
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Simple Choices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seraphtrevs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seraphtrevs/gifts).



> Secret Santa gift for the lovely Sera!!

“Okay, Ciro, I’m curious. Do you know why you're here tonight?”

Dark eyes watch him, probing, but the smile beneath the mustache doesn’t waver.

Ciro doesn’t really know what to say. 

The more he tries to figure out how he ended up in this fancy room, on this expensive leather couch with a Salamanca pouring him a drink, the less he can put his finger on it. Ciro doesn’t remember making any kind of particular decision, really. At least not the kind you have to think long and hard about. 

Ciro’s fingers close around the glass of cognac in his hands, and he smiles back, awkwardly.

*

When he’s just a few years out of school, one of his friends tells him about a gig – easy money, no questions.

It’s getting dark, and they’re sitting on the roof of one of the abandoned houses on the warm concrete, smoking cigarettes Ciro stole for them. It’s simple: The cigarettes are the reason Ciro got to hang out with Rafael and his guys, even though they’re a few years older and even own guns. At least Rafael does. And the reason Ciro wants to hang out with them is because in this neighborhood, it’d be stupid to be on your own.

Also, he really doesn’t mind sharing a smoke with Rafael, who fills out his grey muscle shirt really well, but his unruly dark locks that keep falling into his eyes make him look softer than he is.

Anyway, Rafael talks about easy money, and Ciro, who’s been wanting a new moped for ages after his old one broke down, doesn’t even have to think about it. 

“Yeah, sure”, he says, “just tell me when.”

*

Rafael’s right. It’s just a delivery to a bar in an area of town Ciro’s never really been to. The bag is heavy, but Ciro doesn’t look inside and he doesn’t ask questions. All that matters is what is inside the brown paper bag he receives afterwards. At night, on his bed, Ciro counts the bills with a racing heart and a grin on his face.

A week later, Ciro has a brand new moped. His mother shakes his head about it, no matter how much he claims that he got it from a friend. “You can buy things when you have work!”, she scolds him.

It’s hard to get work that actually pays well, and it’s even harder to keep your job at your father’s cousins’ store when you keep stealing cigarettes.

Ciro should’ve probably thought about how to explain the moped to his parents in advance. But he hasn’t, so he says, “I’ve found a new job, mamá, alright?” and escapes from the kitchen before she can ask more questions.

*

It’s nice to be able to buy things – new colorful shirts like the ones Rafael likes to wear, a used Walkman and a few cassettes, and a really nice jack knife from one of Rafael’s guys. But there’s the way his mother looks at him when he’s sitting on the doorstep, his headphones on, humming along to the music, before she leaves for work. She cleans clothes at the shop and brings some home to fix them – sometimes until late at night.

There’s his father’s bent shape at the kitchen table when he quietly eats his meals. He’s been doing a lot of heavy lifting, loading and unloading trucks, and it shows in the curve of his back.

Ciro bought his sister a pretty little doll, and she still beams all over her face when she plays with her under the kitchen table. He wishes it were that easy with his parents.

Suddenly, he feels guilty for spending all the money on toys and trinkets. 

*

“You think I could make more money?”, Ciro asks.

Rafael laughs, then looks him up and down and says, “Sure. But that depends.”

Ciro knits his brows. “Depends on what?”

“You don’t get that much with little delivery errands”, Rafael says and Ciro feels there’s something distinctly mocking in the way he regards him. “If you want to make actual money, you have to really prove yourself. You know what that means?”

Ciro flicks his cigarette down on the street. “I’m not a kid, you know.”

“You ever held a gun in your hands?”

Ciro shakes his head, but adds as nonchalantly as he can, “Can’t be too hard, right?”

Rafael laughs again, pulls another cigarette from the pack with his teeth and holds out his hand. “Shut up and give me my lighter back.”

*

Ciro makes up his mind a few nights later, when he sneaks into his bedroom with a bloody nose, aching ribs and a throbbing knee. He’s never felt so fucking stupid. Rafael would call him a moron for just driving straight home all these nights, openly flaunting his brown paper bag when he got off the moped.

It’s some kind of miracle that tonight is the first time he got jumped by three guys, one of them waving a gun in his face. Ciro knows he’s probably lucky he didn’t get shot when he tried to run, but instead they immediately grabbed hold of him and kicked him right in the knee so Ciro stumbled to the ground. Then Ciro found himself pushed into the dirt with a gun pressed to the back of his skull and his pulse pounding in his ears.

Ciro’s cheek burns and throbs where the gravel of the road has cut into the skin as he slowly lowers his head onto the pillow.

It slowly sinks in. His money is gone. His moped, too. 

He tries to swallow down a sob.

He thinks of Rafael, how no one dares to mess with him, and the gun he keeps in the waistband of his jeans. Rafael will laugh at him if he even tries to bring this up.

If he wants anyone to respect him, there’s only one thing he can do.

*

As he waits on the street corner, Ciro has his hands shoved in the pockets of his washed-out jeans. For some reason, Ciro feels as nervous as he did on his first day.

In the car, the man who usually gives him his paper bags full of money hands him a gun. It’s heavier than Ciro thought it would be.

“You do this right, you’re on the good side of the cartel. You’ll get far.”

“And if I fuck up?”, Ciro asks before he can stop himself.

“That’s your problem, kid.”

They drive him to his destination on the outskirts of town in the middle of the night. Then, they tell him to get rid of the gun and not run too far when he’s done, and Ciro nods. They tell him it’s the fourth house on the right, and Ciro nods again. The man beside him shoves him out of the car and they drive off. 

Ciro can’t think of anything as he follows the narrow street between white houses. There’s a high frequency buzz in the back of his skull, like a high-pitched note ringing in his ears.

Just do what you’re told. It’s easy. Ciro’s fingers close around the cool grip of the gun. It must be a fight against some rivals, he tells himself. Cartel members kill each other every day. People die around here all the time. It’s not a big deal. 

His heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s beating outside of his chest. Like the sweaty hand on the gun is the only part of him that’s real. He tries hard not to think about the fact that if the man is a cartel member and knows he’s coming, he’ll most definitely kill him. 

Ciro rings the doorbell, and the sound alerts him like a gunshot. Suddenly, he feels completely present. His fingers are curled tightly around the grip of the gun as he lifts it up to eye level, his index finger on the trigger. The barrel only shakes slightly. When the door opens, Ciro panics and shoots four, five, six times. Then he runs.

The next thing he remembers is standing in the doorway in some backyard a few blocks away, heaving and shaking. His lungs burn and he’s sweating all over, and he’s vomiting his guts out.

There are police sirens in the streets in the distance, and Ciro remembers he’s not supposed to run far. They’ll catch you. Stay close.

Ciro huddles up in the dark doorway, the gun still in the waistband of his pants. Maybe he should have gotten rid of it.

His heart is pounding hard against his ribs and Ciro tastes bile. Somehow, he barely knows what the man looked like – he had a bit of a stubble, and wore a shirt, white, and his eyes were brown and widened, just like his mouth opened as the first bullet hit him and he stumbled backwards.

Ciro thinks of blood spreading on white fabric, of the weird, garbled sounds before the man collapsed against the wall beside him and slid to the ground. Maybe Ciro should have checked whether he really is dead. But he must have hit him at least three times, he’s sure of that. That’s enough, right? It’s hard to focus on anything now, with the sound of the sirens rising and falling somewhere close by and his pulse so loud in his ears.

When Ciro wakes up, it’s quiet. The sun is up - it must be early in the morning, maybe 5 or 6 am. His legs are stiff, and his hands are cold, and the back of his throat burns.

Ciro gets up with a groan and makes his way back home. He throws the gun in some bushes on his way. His parents already left for work, so Ciro gets rid of his dirty clothes and puts them at the bottom of the laundry basket. Then, he collapses on his bed.

*

His mother doesn’t look him in the eye the next day, and Ciro suspects that there might have been blood on his shirt. But she doesn’t mention it, or ask him any questions.

At dinner, Ciro pulls out a bundle of bills held together by a rubber band and puts it on the kitchen table. His mother rises from her chair as if she’s been burned. Still, she doesn’t say anything, but quietly walks over to the kitchen counter.

His father has stopped eating, still holding the fork in his hand. His deep-seated eyes wander from the money to his son’s face.

“For you”, Ciro says. His father looks at him, his expression weirdly neutral.

Dishes are clinking in the sink behind Ciro as his mother busies herself with cleaning up, and Ciro swallows. In his head, this had been much simpler.

Carefully, his father puts the fork aside and reaches out to take the money.

“We’ll take it”, he says, his tone equally careful. “But we don’t need any more.”

There’s a finality to the way he says it, the way he holds Ciro’s gaze. It’s that, and the wariness with which his father regards him, that really drives it home. His parents have known all along, who he’s been working for, what he’s doing.

Ciro feels sick. He gets up from the kitchen table and leaves.

*

“It’s not fair”, Ciro says vehemently, “I could make sure that they are protected! I could get them all the money they need!”

Rafael nods, hands shoved in his pockets. “They don’t get it. They’re always so scared.”

Ciro bites the insides of his cheek.

“But forget about that”, Rafael says, finally. “You’ve got yourself to worry about.”

With a shrug, Ciro kicks a few stones down the street.

“The boss has asked for you.” There’s something in Rafael’s tone that makes Ciro look up.

“Must have done good”, Rafael says and the way he smiles feels not mocking at all.

*

Ciro starts keeping a gun tucked in his waistband. It’s not just for protection. Like the gold chain around his neck, it makes him a different person. Someone who won’t get mugged in the streets.

Someone who’s not afraid of working for the cartel.

Someone Rafael respects. 

*

Once you get the hang of it, these things get easier. When Ciro sits between a few other young men in the back of a truck, each of them clutching a machine gun, he always sees a lot of pale faces. Ciro usually smokes a cigarette to calm his nerves, but he doesn’t get sick anymore. It’s simple. You don’t think, you just do what you’re told. You get in, you shoot, and if you don’t hesitate, you probably survive.

There’s something important going down tonight, something big for the cartel. But Ciro doesn’t know much about cartel politics, and he doesn’t ask. 

All he needs to know is that when they get back on the truck, his ears still ringing from the gunshots and his hair and clothes reeking of gunpowder, there’s cheering and back clapping.

His boss, Sr. Gutiérrez, a man of small stature with a heavy-set jaw and muttonchops, declares that they made him a ton of money tonight.

For the first time, Ciro is invited to Sr. Gutiérrez’ place. It’s a big fancy house with a garden and so many rooms, Ciro feels he could get lost very quickly. There’s a party going on, and a lot of important looking people are lounging on couches and armchairs, smoking and drinking.

The boys get a lot of cheers from the crowd before they are shown into a separate room with a TV and leather couch. Before any of that can really sink in, the boys are already grappling for the TV remote, and Ciro laughs with the others as two of them fall on the floor and roll over the fluffy carpet. Once they’ve settled on the couch, the TV is soon forgotten anyway because Fino, a boy Ciro remembered from some other jobs because of his wide, mischievous smile, finds the liquor cabinet.

Ciro barely remembers the rest of the night, especially after a few women entered the room, their thin sparkly dresses barely concealing anything, and offered them trays with lines of white powder.

He remembers the light shining on the dress of the woman sitting on top of the guy next to him, their moans clear and floating in the air. He remembers Fino turning towards him and how they both laughed, the corners of Fino’s mouth, and how soft his lips felt against his. He remembers the heat of Fino’s body, the frantic and excited energy, and how good it felt to be so close, his warm fingers around his dick.

When Ciro wakes up, it feels like his head is split in two. His legs are entangled with someone else’s and he’s lying on the soft fluffy carpet, naked. The boys are blinking into the sunlight, some of them lying on the floor, like him. Only two of the others slept on the couch, one of the women sandwiched between them.

“Hurry up, get out!”, the old housemaid looming over them yells again and waves her broom menacingly. “And put your pants on!”

There’s a kerfuffle as they all hurry to find as many clothes as they can. Ciro almost falls over as he pulls up his pants and hurries out of the door, Fino in hot pursuit. They run down the stairs, Ciro’s tongue still sticking to the roof of his mouth and his headache killing him, but when he starts laughing, Fino laughs with him.

*

It’s only a few weeks later that Ciro is invited over to his boss’ house again. This time, it’s just him, sitting alone on the leather couch with his shoes on the white carpet.

“You know the name Salamanca?”, Sr. Gutiérrez asked him the day before.

Of course Ciro does. Everyone around here knows that when the Salamancas clean up, no one gets out alive. “Yeah, they run things.”

“Good”, Gutiérrez said. “Then you know better than to embarrass me.”

Ciro didn’t need Rafael to tell him that meeting a Salamanca means that if he plays his cards right, this could go really well for him.

So Ciro waits alone, his heart beating high in his chest. 

*

_“Do you know why you're here tonight?”_

It’s the first question Lalo asks him when he pours him a glass of cognac. 

Ciro thinks of his father’s bent back, and of his cheek pressed into the dirt. He thinks of the way Rafael said the name Salamanca with fearful reverence.

“I don’t know”, he eventually says with a shrug.


End file.
